


Feel a change comin' on

by waferkya



Category: Supernatural, Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how much Dean wanted to bite at his lips, though; the guy is clearly psycho, or a demon, or maybe both, which wouldn’t be so much of a surprise anyway. Dean is not drunk enough and still too miserable to deal with any of the options, so he calls it a night and maybe it’s the first time he heads back to the motel this early since all Hell broke loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel a change comin' on

**Author's Note:**

> I just-- I waaaaaant them to meet!!!11!!ELEVEN!! Also, I'm not going to apologize for stealing the title from Bob Dylan. Nope I'm not.

_We got so much in common  
we strive for the same old ends  
And I just can't wait  
wait for us to become friends  
I feel a change comin' on  
and the fourth part of the day's already gone_   
Bob Dylan, **I feel a change comin' on**

“Turn it off,” he says, with a sort of melancholy all over his face, and it sounds like an order. “Turn it off,” and Dean gulps down what’s left of his beer, grabs his coat, waves, he just wants out of this shithole.

The man lets him go, he doesn’t even flinch; keeps sipping at his double malt whisky like it’s the best fucking thing he ever tasted, and that’s kind of why Dean felt drawn towards him in the first place anyway. The liquor lovers bond, or something. Well, that, and his fucking lips.

Mother of God, his _lips_.

Full and puffy and slightly shiny with alcohol, but if you ask Dean, those are just some well-fucked – or fuckable, – lips, gorgeous, nonetheless, on the thin rim of a glass full of motherfucking whisky.

No matter how much Dean wanted to bite at his lips, though; the guy is clearly psycho, or a demon, or maybe both, which wouldn’t be so much of a surprise anyway. Dean is not drunk enough and still too miserable to deal with any of the options, so he calls it a night and maybe it’s the first time he heads back to the motel this early since all Hell broke loose.

Hell, not even when he’s working on a case he does give up drinking when he’s barely hit his second round.

He shrugs it off, or at least he tries. The point is, somehow what the dude said got under his skin. Maybe it was his voice, his ridiculous accent; maybe his lips, or maybe, just _maybe_ , the fact that he took a qucik look at Dean and saw straight through him.

“All that guilt,” he said, “it must be exhausting. Turn it off.”

And Dean, honestly, has had his more than fair share of dealing with guilt, lately. What’s up with everyone these days, anyway? He doesn’t need a shrink, he needs a _drink_ , for fuck’s sake. And now he won’t get to have one till tomorrow night, because some dude with a thick British accent and lips to die for decided to play the ‘I know exactly how full of shit you are, Dean Winchester’ card on him.

Dean huffs, annoyed, and storms towards his car. He gets to make three steps and then a shadow moves the wrong way and he finds himself pushed face-first into a wall in the alley next to the bar, and Jesus Christ this feels familiar.

Dean tries to put up a struggle, he kicks below the waist and throws out his elbows but whoever attacked him is strong as fuck, too strong for him.

 _Great,_ he thinks, and groans, and he can’t reach his gun nor the knife in his boot.

“So, what are you?” he asks, grinding his teeth because there’s a fucking hand pushing the side of his face to a bricked wall and he’s gonna have bruises all over his cheek tomorrow morning, be it in his bed or in a litter at the morgue. “Lemme guess, pal. Demon? A witch? Oh, if you’re a witch I hope you’re Sandra Bullock, I’ve always thought Sandra Bullock was a witch.”

“Try again,” the guy purrs in his ear, and Dean holds his breath and tries to turn around because that’s the guy from the bar, the psycho, the shrink with the pornstar lips.

“Fuck my instincts,” Dean mutters, as his eye manages to catch a glimpse of the guy’s amused smirk and those. Fucking. Red. Puffy. Lips.

He grabs Dean by his arms, hard enough to bruise, and he turns him around, pressing him up against the wall. Dean bites a moan when the bricks kindly dig into his back, even through the thick leather jacket.

“It’s not very polite to walk away in the middle of a meaningful conversation, love, you know?”

Dean plasters half a grin on his face, tries not to cringe at the thought of how dangerously close he is to the monster, and how far from Sammy or any other kind of help.

“I even waved you goodbye,” he says, his breath short but even, as his brain kicks into full emergency mode, quickly scanning his chances to survive the next three minutes. He doesn’t find any, sadly enough.

“Yes, I know you did,” the guy muses, and then he lifts up his chin, looks down at Dean and eyes are blown black, not like a demon’s, much like those of a human heavily on drugs, and Dean wonders what the hell’s he dealing with this time, Jesus Christ. “But I also know I kindly gave you an advice, and you didn’t do as I said.”

Dean huffs, half amused, half annoyed, because dear Lord, talk about being bossy.

“I’m so very sorry to disappoint you,” he says, and then: “What the Hell are you anyway, are you gonna tell me or not?”

The hand on his shoulder – Dean doesn’t want to think about who else ever grabbed him in that very same spot, thank you very much, – tightens its grip, and after a heartbeat Dean feels lips on his neck, brushing lightly at his skin. He shivers, not at all out of discomfort, and then there’s teeth, there, sharp and pointy and cold and oh, fuck, this is the greatest night ever.

“Get off me, Cullen,” he spits, and the vampire bites, gently though, just enough to draw little droplets of blood.

His lips are stained with bright red when he pushes his head back up, and he licks them so slowly Dean is a hundred percent sure he’s gonna die anyway, of a major unresolved sexual tension situation – that stuff can be deadly, man, – if not at this guy’s hands.

“You have an odd taste,” the vampire says, thoughtful. Dean lifts a quizzical eyebrow. “Who are you?”

“No, dude, I asked first. Pioneer rights, and stuff.”

The vampire huffs, unimpressed, but he keeps it together and honestly, Dean is so, so fazed because the guy is clearly enjoying this little pointless chitchat before he rips his neck open for dinner, and this is fairly odd behavior for a bloodsucker. Aren’t they supposed to snap into crazy, ravenous horrible things at the mere sight of humans? Maybe he’s not that hungry?

“You know what I am,” he says, ah, scratch that; he _purrs_. “My name is Klaus. Now you, love, must be something very special, because,” he licks his lips, again, and Dean has no idea how to tear his eyes away from the tip of his tongue. “What I taste in your blood, is phoenix ashes.”

Dean blinks at that, frowns. He has, in fact, been gulping down some ashes from time to time, since all the Eve madness went off the bridge, just because you never know what might be lurking in the shadows, right? Her freak babies are supposed to be dead and burnt with her, but hey, even if Bobby’s paranoia hadn’t rubbed off on him long ago, Dean has always had a lot of his own.

He decides to play it dumb, though, because he doesn’t think it would be such a great idea to turn himself in to a vampire who’s still towering over him and has every intention in the world to munch his throat open and fucking feed on him.

“Is that some kind of drug you put in my drink?” he smirks, his charm up and kicking, but Klaus – it’s a shame that he’s a vampire, really; he looks so good, in the bare light of this creepy alleyway, his eyes all shiny and his jaw clenching rhytmically whenever he moves, plus he was a great drinking companion, despite his accent, until he took out the creepy therapist talking, and Dean would’ve loved to hang out with him some time, if he were human of course, to go hunting ladies, not with killing intentions, and maybe some mindless, fumbling, extremely drunk fooling around on a couch on those nights when _all_ of the hotties decide to stay home, – seems somehow unflattered.

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice deep and soothing. Dean smiles, goes for the best lie he has.

“I’m an angel of the Lord,” he says, ignoring the sting the words give him to his chest. Klaus chuckles, then his laugh falls and he’s scary, fuck, this is dangerous. He pushes closer, Dean tries to get away but he can’t move a single muscle.

“ _Tell me,_ who are you?” Klaus asks again, and there’s _something_ in his voice, and Dean can’t blink, he can’t stop looking at his eyes.

“I’m a hunter,” he says, because he _has_ to be honest about it. “Dean Winchester. I also find you very attractive, but there’s no reason for you to know it.”

Klaus doesn’t stop staring at him, his pupils wide like wells.

“And what do you hunt, Dean Winchester?”

Dean shrugs, kind of.

“Things,” he tries, his tongue a bit tied. Klaus tightens his control over his mind, and Dean straightens his back right away. “Monsters, ghosts, demons. Things like you. Honestly.”

“Ah, I see,” finally, Klaus looks impressed. He releases the compulsion, and Dean blinks, confused. Klaus smiles, he kind of looks like a wolf right now. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, love, but I fear you have never met something like _me_ , before,” and just like that, his eyes turn black, _all_ black, with just a ring of golden and Dean holds his breath, he freaks out.

What the fuck is that?

He opens his mouth, he doesn’t even know if his brain means to beg for his life – which would be completely insane, – or mutter an exorcism because these really look like demon-eyes to him, but before he can even utter a syllable, Klaus’ cell phone starts ringing.

The tune is some pop song that sounds insanely slutty, and just like that the moment is gone, Klaus’ eyes turn back to normal and he even looks slightly embarrassed.

“Well,” Dean smiles, cocky and shaking. “That was anticlimatic.”

“Shut up,” Klaus mutters, takes out his phone and ignores the call. He lets go of Dean, confident that he could catch him again in a matter of seconds if he dared run away.

“Lemme have an educated guess. Little brother?” he asks, because Klaus has just _that_ face.

“Sister,” he corrects, texting away with skilled fingers. “Bossy, annoying little sister.”

“Woah, sounds fun.”

“Yes, she is hilarious.”

Dean smirks, looks away while Klaus sends his message; he could try to run, honestly, he could probably even make it halfway to the parking lot but this guy is quick, he realized this much, and stronger than anything he’s ever faced. He briefly considers trying to shoot him dead, but seriously? He’s not so confident it would work, his gun isn’t loaded with wooden bullets, and why don’t they always carry a gun with wooden bullets anyway?

He has no chances, but he makes a mental note to look for this guy’s nest, tomorrow, just in case he manages to get out of here in one piece.

“So!” he says, cheerful like a child, clapping his hands and rubbing them in front of his face. “D’you wanna get back inside and maybe talk about our siblings problems, grab another beer? Or, whatever it was you were drinking? It looked expensive, by the way, I might want to give it a try if it’s on you.”

Klaus looks at him with a touch of caution, like he doesn’t fully understand why the fuck would Dean be so relaxed in front of something as deadly and pitiless as a vampire with weird demonic eyes. Dean widens his smile, throws in a bit of wiggly eyebrows because God help him, he’s quickly running out of options here.

Klaus pouts for a second, and then he shrugs.

“Alright,” he says, finally. Phoenix ashes must really taste like shit, Dean muses as they walk back towards the bar. “I could really use some brooding right now.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, he can’t help it, really, he’s just stupidly happy that maybe he won’t get killed tonight. It’s a nice change, for once.

“Ah, nothing,” Klaus smiles right away, shrugging it off. He then puts a hand on Dean’s lower back, _deliciously_ low, and his smile turns into a little bit of a wolvish grin. “I’m afraid I didn’t close my tab, before coming after you.”

“Dude,” Dean says, widening his eyes and taking a moment to stop and stare at the magnificent yet sadly undead guy currently keeping the bar’s door open for him. “You’re awesome.”

And yes, it really is a nice change, for once.


End file.
